The music was coming from the woman’s car radio. A violin, florid and winding around a piano. She turned it down, then turned it off. The night had swallowed up Shifty somewhere behind them.

‘Can’t leave the van.’

‘I’ll make sure it’s picked up. I locked it up for you. Do you not remember?’

Matty said no to the seatbelt, which hurt too much. A wave of nausea again. ‘I need to sleep.’

‘I think you should try and stay awake. Just for a bit. Shall I put the music back on?’

Chapter 7

A staggeringly sharp rib-pain.

The room was gently undulating. Matty inched a hand round a rib, tentatively testing the area, and then there it was – the memory of it all in one compressed second, of the black lough and Dale, of being smashed against Shifty, of his fist.

There was a side-light on. A thick duvet, and a lighter floral quilt on top. The walls were pale grey.

Each breath, no matter how shallow, hurt in an unnameable way. Matty stayed laid out flat, sensing each bruise, the throb against the skin. Right knee. Left rib. Ribs. One wrist was alarmingly loose. Bottom lip split, cheekbone on fire. Eyebrow.

There was a clock, some of sort of antique, on the wall, its tick lopsided. A string of small animals made of cloth – elephants maybe – hung down at the edge of the curtain, a bell at the end of it. A mug of something on the bedside table next to a neatly placed sanitary towel in its packaging. Jeans in a pile on the floor. The room smelt of lemon, and of Christmas.

There was a soft knock. The door opened.

Matty tried to sit up, a whimper coming.

‘It’s only me.’ The woman’s voice was gentle, honeyed. ‘There’s no one else living here. Is it all right to come in?’ She did anyway, pulling up a wooden chair from the corner. A moment, while she looked over. ‘How are you doing, there?’

Still dark outside. ‘What time is it?’ The words were broken.

‘It’s two.’ She was in her late thirties perhaps, thick black hair to her shoulders, a fringe. Wearing a peacock-green wool cardigan and a cotton shirt with small, mirrored decorations around the neckline.

Matty swallowed. The feeling of thin blades, crossing over each other. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘You don’t need to go. Just rest.’

Limbs, sluggish. Chest, like a block of concrete was on it. And the breathing. ‘No,’ said Matty, to the injuries as much as to this woman.

‘I need to tend to you a little. You didn’t let me help you clean up or anything so I just got you into bed. Maybe that’s good if – so we can show what’s happened to you to the guards?’

The panic rose. ‘I have to leave.’ A hacking, liquid cough. Matty tried to curl up, failed.